On The Ice
by Bryher
Summary: Ficlets with our favourite Knights. Series of five. Short, sweet, and sharp.
1. Chapter 1

On The Ice

Tile; On The Ice

Rating; Going to say K, but it's not even that as far as I know.

Summary; Tristan has never been afraid of anything, has he?

Review; Yes please.

* * *

Fear is a waste of breath and energy. To fear is to hand your opponent a weapon.

With an irritated scowl, I clenched my jaw. My opponent was the ice.

Glancing back over my shoulder I caught Galahad's eye. He looked terrified.

An ominous crack rang through the air, the ice cracking and shifting. Flinging an arm out to halt my horse, I felt a stab of something…_panic_?

I paused.

Slowly, a grin formed on my face.

I was feeling fear.

Arthur turned as drums rumbled through the valley.

I smirked.

"I never liked looking over my shoulder anyway."

'_Just get me off this ice.'

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Will be a series of unrelated five ficlets. Requests after that welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title;** Rome

**Rating; **K+

**Summary; **A new girl from Rome questions Arthur's strength of belief in the ancient capital.

**Review; **Yes, please.

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She was a dirty, pretty thing. Sitting in the cage, ankles bound, wrists scraped raw, eyes staring out with a deadened look to them, glazed slightly in defeat.

Arthur frowned.

"Why has she been treated so?" Tristan asked a guard quietly, watching her.

The guard snorted. "She's a killer, that one. Been sent here to fight. Couldn't have her travel any other way."

"It's cruel," Galahad seethed in anger, hands clenching and unclenching at his side in an attempt to calm his nerves. "Let her out."

The guard looked to Arthur.

Arthur wasn't listening.

She was from Rome; from the place he desired to be with all his heart. _"Killer."_ He had heard that much. She didn't look capable of it, but years fighting Woads had more than sufficiently gotten rid of any preconceptions about small women such as her.

"Arthur?"

Tristan's quiet call made the man blink, his gaze broken away from the young woman.

"Take her to Dagonet." He sounded, to his unease, detached. "Let him take care of her."

As she was tugged from the cage, a groan escaped her, dulled eyes closing as a wound hidden by the filthy burlap sacking she wore broke and bled. Arthur's horrified gaze met half lidded, pained eyes.

"Your…your Rome isn't what you think it is," she managed. "It never was."

Taking a step back, Arthur snapped, "Take her to Dagonet!"

* * *

For a long while after that, Arthur watched her as she was nursed back to health, and she began training. She was good, not excellent, but good. An adequate fighter, she kept herself to herself and never told the knights her name. She did, however, sing. Not in public, but it earned her the name 'Song'.

Arthur couldn't forget her words.

He did not cry when she allowed herself to be shot a year later, but instead smiled softly at her as her glazed eyes, which had never lost their haunted look, closed.

"Be at peace," he whispered, wondering all the while how he would find his.

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	3. Chapter 3

**Title;** Immortal

**Rating; **K+

**Summary; **AU The Knights are looking down at their modern-day descendants from the big Sarmatia in the sky.

**Review; **Please.

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"Bors, I must say, he looks more like me than you."

Glowering, Bors cuffed Lancelot upside the head and turned his attention back to the tall, heavy built young man in the large mirror. He stood at the doors of a nightclub.

A scantily clad woman began trying to get past him, waving her arms about and yelling, clearly drunk.

"Charming," muttered Tristan as Bors' descendant gave the woman a light shove away, shaking his head.

"More charming than your lass," Galahad chuckled, shaking his head. "Your blood must be strong, Tristan."

The scout grinned, remembering the pretty, dark haired young woman who rode a black, roaring beast of a machine at alarming speeds. She had floored a man in a petrol re-filling station, then proceeded to calmly fill up the motorbike, pay, and leave, pulling her backpack onto her shoulders as she went. He'd tried to sling an arm around her shoulders. They discovered that she travelled, but was originally from a small town in the north of England. "Aye, strong." He murmured, a light grin playing around his mouth, "But yours is just strange."

Galahad and Gawain both went red.

Their descendants were a young couple who lived together in Chesters, not far from the forts where they had been stationed. A young, handsome man with curly hair had been the first to come from the forge the couple owned. As far as was discernable, they made armour for, as Tristan put it, "The nonces who pretended to be Romans" at the forts along the wall.

"Gawain, she must be yours!" Exclaimed Galahad as a blonde woman came from the forge, setting down a plate of metal armour on a low wall. "Well look at that," Gawain beamed, "Friends forever!"

Silence had fallen as the man had grabbed the young woman in a tight grip and kissed her.

Both knights had gone deathly pale.

Lancelot crowed when his descendant came to light. An aristocratic man emerged from a very beautiful sports car and gone into a mansion, his dark curls dancing about in the coastal air.

The cocky knight wasn't as pleased to find out that his descendant was living in Italy, and not more than a day's drive from Rome.

Dagonet's descendant was only young; a small girl of around eight or nine whose primary play was pretend sword fighting with her older brothers. She was small and skinny, bright blue eyes and golden curls causing a moment of uncertainty in the large knight. Only when one of her brothers accidentally hurt the other and she dashed over to help did the large man breathe a silent sigh of relief.

Arthur smiled at his knights, remembering his own descendant. An old, happy man living in Rome, surrounded by books and papers and the like. He was a curator for the museum of Pompeii, but liked the city life and it's business.

As he stood back, watching his men arguing about who would get to see their descendant again, a soft smile tilted his mouth.

"Galahad! He's kissing her _again!_"

"What about it? _You_ couldn't resist me when we were alive."

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	4. Chapter 4

**Title;** First to Last.

**Rating;** K+

**Summary; **Lancelot ponders on moments in his life.

**Review; **Please.

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It didn't occur to me that I was dying.

Not at first, anyway. It was just sort of…numb. I looked down, saw the bolt and collapsed to my knees.

They say that your life flashes before your eyes when you die; whoever 'they' are, they're right.

I was seven years old, determined and strong willed; Lamorak had climbed it, and Gaheris before him; I was not going to let this tree conquer me.

Looking up at it, I thought guilti-alright, not _that_ guiltily, about my Mother, who was sleeping after bringing me my new sister, Iona, the week before.

Iona was a soft, squishy thing who blinked a lot and slept even more.

I wasn't that concerned with her; it wasn't my job to be, but I loved her nonetheless, and it was she that I was thinking of as I reached up into the first branch, gripping it warily and yanking myself up.

So far, so good.

Half way up the tree, which stood quite tall, I looked down.

Thoughts of my new baby sister quickly fled.

Woozily, I gripped the trunk of the tree, trying not to whimper in fear.

I would just climb down again, nothing to it, I reasoned.

Steadily, I began to work my way down, choosing branches carefully, hands sweaty and shaking.

Slowly, I eased my foot onto the bottom branch, heaving a sigh of reli-CRACK.

It hurt.

A lot.

Scrumpling my face up, I scrubbed at my eyes, trying to get whatever it was in them _out_. Taking my hands away, I blinked at the red substance that coated my knuckles; blood.

Standing, I darted away towards the stream, eager to wash off the offending liquid before someone saw- I was supposed to be doing chores, not climbing about, and a split head was going to get me caught.

It was my first bad cut.

It was not my last.

* * *

I'd never been drunk before, so I wasn't sure what was going on.

Everything was blurry and somewhat dim; the floor didn't want to support my feet and the walls kept moving away from my hands.

I didn't like it.

"C'mere! Ssst'pd thnnng." I rumbled, staggering towards the evasive stonework, holding my head in one hand.

"Lancelot?"

"Whoosair?" I yelled, swinging around blindly, legs giving way until I sat on the floor, legs splayed out in front of me, trying to give an intimidating scowl.

Tristan.

"You're drunk."

With a 'whump', I felt my back connect with the floor, my head bounding soon after. "Ow."

"Your own fault. Why are you here?"

I gave him a bleary, one eyes scowl. "Theseses my rooms, eedjit."

Tristan raised an eyebrow, leaning against the open doorframe. I eyed it angrily.

"Ooouut."

"Lancelot, look around you."

"Whyyy?"

I closed my eyes, feeling sleep stealing up on me.

The door slammed.

Sunlight poured in, which confused me; my room faced west. Opening my eyes groggily, I looked around. I was on the floor of an unfamiliar room.

Until I saw the perch in one corner.

Tristan's room.

It was my first time of inebriation.

It was not my last.

* * *

With a groan, I flipped over onto my back, dragging the wench with me, gripping her hips hard.

I couldn't remember her name, I couldn't care less about it.

She'd not cost me a penny, drawn in by my looks. I felt a bit saddened by it, but she was only after one thing, and, at this point, so was I.

My first lover, my first love.

Neither were my last.

* * *

"Gaheris! Wake up!"

I shook him hard, tears forming in my eyes. A hand on my shoulder attempted to pull me away, with a yell, I flung away the limb. "No! No leave me alone! _Gaheris!"_

Blood caked the side of his head, a wound on the temple spilling blood into his blue eyes. Lamorak crouched on his other side, his own dark eyes wide and shocked.

"Please wake up!"

He was the first person I lost.

He was not the last.

* * *

Blood pooled around my skin on the inside of my armour as I moved my mouth silently. Darkness fogged the edge of my vision. I was dying. Slowly, my lips formed the words;

"This is the first time I have died.

It is my last."

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	5. Chapter 5

**Title;** Lonely

**Rating;** G

**Summary;** Galahad is lonely.

**Review;** Please.

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Firelight flickered over his features, the youthful, handsome face surrounded by soft curls sombre, blue eyes sad. Dressed in a soft, light blue wool tunic with a clean linen shirt on beneath, long, fawn covered legs stretched out before him, Galahad should have been the picture of comfort. Instead, Arthur, Bors and Gawain watched him concernedly from the other side of the small, private tavern. 

"What's the matter with him?" Gawain murmured in frustration, slapping his hand off his leg. "He hasn't moved from there all night."

"Van tried to speak to 'im before," Bors sighed, eyes still on the youngest knight. "Jus' asked for more ale." Arthur remained silent, watching as Galahad brought his beaker up to his firm mouth, taking a small sip before frowning at some thought which had displeased him.

"He's lonely."

Both Gawain and Bors regarded their friend and King with an incredulous look; it was not an unkind one; the sort of look a parent gives an adamant child.

"Arthur, he has a woman in his bed often; I don't think he's lonely," Gawain chuckled. "It must be something else."

"Aye," Bors agreed, "It's not that."

Arthur sipped at his drink, a knowing look on his worn face.

* * *

"Gawain?" 

The blonde knight stopped sharpening his axe and looked up at Galahad, who lay flat on his back on a beam in the stables' attics, legs dangling down. Sunlight filtered though the gaps, one such beam landing directly on Galahad's mouth, the white teeth flashing as he spoke again.

"I'm lonely."

Gawain almost fell over.

"Lonely!" He yelped. "How!"

Galahad turned his head, shadows under his eyes. Gawain paused. Galahad _was_ lonely.

"I don't know. I've been trying to figure it out. Thinking and thinking… until I realised- I'm lonely." He broke off, and stared grumpily into the air.

Gawain sat down on a bench almost directly under the beam and leant against the strong pole supporting it. "Speak, or forever hold your silence," he said slowly, waiting to hear the rest.

* * *

Carefully, Galahad shifted until he lay on his front, arms and legs hanging down in the air. 

"So, Gawain, I need to settle down. I need a woman who isn't there because I'm 'Sir Galahad' or because I have some spare coin. I want someone to just be with me for me."

As the young man swung his legs in the air, hands under his chin, the blonde knight looked up.

Sadly, Gawain smiled. "I'm always here."

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Please review. 

From here on in, I'm happy to take requests.


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